


Blizzard

by TheOriginalLovelace



Series: Femslash Yuletide 2013 (2020) [7]
Category: Legend of the Seeker (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Cara needs a hug, Character Development, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/F, Feelings, Femslash Yuletide, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Snow, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Winter, and by the Creator and all the Spirits Kahlan WILL give her one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27973779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOriginalLovelace/pseuds/TheOriginalLovelace
Summary: Silence settles between them but, unlike the heavy stillness of winter, this is light and comfortable, a soothing balm for Cara's frayed nerves. Or maybe that's just Kahlan.
Relationships: Kahlan Amnell/Cara Mason
Series: Femslash Yuletide 2013 (2020) [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036977
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48





	Blizzard

**Author's Note:**

> so, yeah, this got a lot longer - and a LOT angstier - than I'd planned but, like, what the muse wants the muae gets?
> 
> Oh, just as a heads up, the self-harm refers to: Cara biting the inside of her cheek until it bleeds, wishing she was bare-handed so her nails would dig into her palms, and a reference to using her agiels to push through anxiety.

She takes it back.

Every nice word, every pleasant thought, she takes it all back. All of it.

Because despite popular belief - and how deeply it wounds her Mord'Sith born pride - Cara Mason  _ can _ admit when she's wrong and wrong is exactly what she is. Because there is nothing nice, nothing beautiful, nothing even remotely  _ pleasant _ about snow.

She clenches her jaw until her teeth ache, eyes narrowed to slits as she looks headlong into the winter wind, glaring for all she's worth.  _ Keeper damn this interminable winter _ , she thinks bitterly as she takes in another lungful of icy air.  _ And whoever thought it wise to build a city this far north _ , she adds with a firm nod.

Heedless of her ever-mounting annoyance, the snow continues to fall - just as it had yesterday and the day before - further obstructing her view beyond the relative safety of the balcony on which she stands and no doubt successfully burying the city of Aydindril beneath yet another layer of white.  _ The Midlands so-called White City certainly looks the part now _ , she thinks with a scoff. Even the familiar blue and silver of its banners are obscured by a thick layer of frozen water and, with winter having long since leeched the color from the natural world, there is little left to help distinguish sky from earth let alone where one building ends and the next begins. She sneers, disdain all but dripping from her lips as she runs her eyes over snow-covered rooftops and roads alike. Some would, no doubt, call the scene pretty, even go so far as to openly praise the view she now calls her own but Cara is not one of them. 

It isn't just the temperature that irks her though, in truth, that would be more than sufficient; the heavy cloak wound about her shoulders - to say nothing of her new fur-lined boots and gloves - stand as proof enough of that. She may have been born in the Midlands but she is far more D'Haran than Midlander, now, a truth that's been quietly confirmed every time she's been required to set foot outside the Confessor's Palace since winter arrived in earnest. She almost misses the time she spent scowling about D'Hara's sweltering, seemingly endless, summers. Almost. The one, and only, benefit of winter is that you can always put on  _ more _ clothing but when you're stripped bare and still sweating there's nothing left to do but grit your teeth and hope for relief.

But, no, it isn't the temperature that bothers her most. It's the  _ silence _ , the unnatural stillness that permeates the air and settles on the ground alongside every Keeper-damned snowflake. It had been aggravating when there was only an inch of snow - just enough to make her usually silent steps echo in her ears so loudly she'd taken to constantly grinding her teeth - but there are mounds of it now, reaching clear to her waist in some places as she'd been loathe to discover, and leaving her finely-tuned senses scrambling to keep track of what's going on around her. And, as if determined to add insult to injury, it not only deadens sound but somehow carries it as well, turning children chasing the family dog into enemies racing toward her unguarded back and the subdued bustle of the markets into distant hoofbeats. It leaves her feeling paranoid and uncomfortably out of control, constantly on guard with half-numb fingers wrapped tightly around the hilts of her agiels. She tries not to leave the Palace unless it's unavoidable, now, and silently berates herself for her cowardice and lack of adaptability every time an opportunity to do so presents itself only for her to avoid it as expertly as she would an incoming attack. Because she is a Mord'Sith and a Mord'Sith should not be beaten by anything but certainly nothing so common as poor weather. 

The thought alone is enough to warrant a near-feral snarl, sending a cloud of fine white mist out into the air; she glares at it until the last wisps of her breath fade from sight, only for it to be replaced with her next exhale. She shakes her head in disgust, though whether it's directed inward or outward she can't honestly say.

She's pulled from her thoughts by the sound of approaching footsteps and as quickly as she tenses she relaxes again, identifying the newcomer long before the balcony doors behind her open. Truth told, she doesn't think it would be difficult to discern their identity even for someone without her particular skill set; there are only so many people allowed entrance to these rooms, after all, and only one besides herself possessing a warrior's gait.

She straightens her already impeccable posture, raising her chin and clasping her hands behind her back, but doesn't turn even as she utters a soft "Mother Confessor" in greeting, her eyes too busy searching for the barely discernible line of the horizon. It is easier now that night is falling than it would have been earlier, but it still takes her an annoyingly long time to find the place where earth meets sky.

A quiet laugh serves as her only warning before she's no longer alone on the balcony, Kahlan moving to join her at the railing with a smile Cara doesn't have to see to know is there. "How do you do that?" she asks, amusement dancing along the edges of her words.

Cara lifts her right shoulder - the one nearest the Confessor - in a casual shrug. "You don't walk like a servant," she says in lieu of a proper explanation and hopes it will be enough to satisfy her. Because Kahlan is as much of a warrior as she is but they were neither trained the same way nor for the same purpose and she isn't sure she actually knows how to explain.

Kahlan hums, apparently satisfied, and Cara looses a quiet breath in relief. 

Silence settles between them but, unlike the heavy stillness of winter, this is light and comfortable, a soothing balm for Cara's frayed nerves. Or maybe that's just Kahlan. 

Speaking of...

"You're back early," she says, glancing at the Confessor from the corner of her eye, searching for any sign of distress. But her face is clear of worry, lips upturned and eyes sparkling as they look out over her city, and Cara feels something deep within her chest loosen at the sight.

"If the Council wanted to argue about anything other than trying to elicit another round of reparations from D'Hara, I'd have been happy to stay and listen," Kahlan answers, shaking her head in clear annoyance. "As it stands, they're lucky I allowed them to carry on as long as I did."

Cara chuckles, more at Kahlan's candor than the words themselves. "As always, the Mother Confessor is generous to a fault."

Kahlan's answering laugh has Cara's lips quirking upwards and she quietly revels in her ability to provoke such a reaction so soon after another in a seemingly endless series of mind-numbing Council meetings. It was a good sign, meaning that, as annoyed as she was with the Councilors themselves, the feeling would pass quickly, allowing Kahlan the whole of the evening to relax without the lingering weight of her title, to say nothing of the many responsibilities that came with it, resting heavily on her shoulders. 

"Have you been here long?"

Cara shakes her head. "Half a candle mark at most." It may have been a little longer but it was annoyingly difficult to keep track of time with the sun setting so damned early, yet another entry on her ever-growing list of reasons to dislike winter.

"And you decided to spend it admiring the view?" she asks, her surprise obvious. 

She scoffs. "Hardly."

Kahlan laughs again, the sound rich and full, and Cara's lips rise higher in response. "Then why, exactly, are you out here?" she asks.

She shrugs again. "Seemed as good a place to wait as any."

"You know," Kahlan begins as she turns to face her, blue eyes sparkling with obvious amusement, "For someone who claims to dislike winter as, ahem,  _ thoroughly _ as you do, you've spent a lot of time out here lately."

Cara sniffs disdainfully, mostly at the implication that enjoyment has anything to do with the increasing amount of time she spends on the Confessor's balcony. "I did not learn to withstand D'Haran summers by hiding away in the baths," she drawls.

Kahlan's playful expression falls away as her eyes grow wide with sudden understanding and Cara's fingers curl into fists at her sides, wishing her hands were bare if only so she could feel the bite of nails on her palms. She settles with clamping her teeth on the inside of her cheek until she tastes iron. The last thing she wants is to be responsible for ruining the Confessor's good mood. Let the Councilors do that; they're ever so good at it, after all. 

"I know this has been a big adjustment for you," she says, so softly Cara has to close her eyes briefly because the warmth of Kahlan's words is almost overwhelming to someone as accustomed to the bitter sting of judgment, of  _ scorn _ , as she is. "Spirits, Cara, you hadn't even  _ seen _ snow a few weeks ago and then this blizzard arrives…"

The feeling of a hand on her arm pulls her gaze from the horizon and into eyes so blue they'd put the noonday sky to shame. "I am Mord'Sith," she says and she wonders if she sounds as defensive to Kahlan's ears as she does her own. She hopes not. "I will adapt."

"I don't doubt it, Cara." Her voice is soft, earnest, honest, everything Kahlan is and Cara has all but forgotten how to be. "But it takes time. Creator, I've lived in the Midlands all my  _ life _ and my first winter in Aydindril was still a shock." She squeezes her arm and, despite her leather, Cara's skin burns from the touch, from the naked intimacy it conveys. "No one else here expects you to adjust overnight..so why do you?"

"I am Mord'Sith," she repeats, her brow furrowed in what she thinks is confusion. Because it's the truth, oftentimes the only truth that matters. Because the more time that passes, the longer she stays in Kahlan's city, at Kahlan's side, in Kahlan's bed, the less true it feels and the more she needs to remind herself of exactly who and what she is. 

"You're also human," Kahlan says and Cara bites back the argument rising like a flood along the river of her throat - almost feels the waves of it crash against the backside of her clenched teeth - partly because she doesn't really  _ want _ to argue but also because she knows, logically, that Kahlan is right. She's been pushing herself harder, lately, punishing herself for her weaknesses, perceived or otherwise. Long hours in the training yard running drills with Aydindril's homeguard, stripped bare of the wintry clothing Kahlan had given and all but ordered her to wear, even longer hours spent either standing here or stalking along the walls, forcing herself to silently endure the still largely unfamiliar bite of frigid air on her skin. It is what a Mord'Sith would do, should do, but a Mord'Sith is no longer all she is. 

Kahlan showed her that. She still shows her, every day.

She doesn't even realize she's looked away, too ashamed to meet the Confessor's eyes, too afraid of what she might see, until she feels Kahlan's hand on her cheek, the gentle touch causing a shiver totally unrelated to the cold to dance along the staircase of her spine. She barely puts any pressure behind her hand, yet not turning to face her feels impossible. When her eyes meet Kahlan's again, she feels herself shudder, unconsciously leaning into her palm. 

"You don't have to hide from me, Cara," she says softly and Cara's eyes slam shut because,  _ Keeper _ , of course she does. 

" _ Kahlan- _ " Her voice breaks and she hates herself for the weakness of it, for the want, the  _ need _ , laid bare in those six unassuming letters. But she doesn't pull away, doesn't even try, and whether it's weakness or strength that keeps her there, trembling beneath Kahlan's soft hand and entreating gaze, she doesn't know.

"I mean it," she says, thumb mapping the soft skin beneath her eye. "This is new to you, all of it. It's-" She pauses and Cara finds the strength to open her eyes just as Kahlan draws her bottom lip into her mouth, worrying the fragile skin between her teeth.

Before Cara can think to question the impulse her fingers find purchase on Kahlan's jaw, urging her lip free with a tenderness only the Confessor seems to inspire. She soothes the abused skin with her thumb, unconsciously echoing the touch on her own face. She doesn't even realize she's doing it until Kahlan gasps and she freezes in place because she is not soft, she does not give comfort, but that is exactly what she's doing. But it feels as right as everything else to do with Kahlan seems to and, after a beat, she continues. "It's what, Confessor?" she rasps.

Kahlan blinks once, twice, three times in rapid succession, her sinfully long lashes sparkling with the aid of the half-dozen snowflakes clinging to them. She is as beautiful in this moment as Cara has ever seen her, all flushed cheeks, achingly blue eyes, and slightly parted lips, and that same something in Cara's chest swells until she thinks she might burst at the seams. "Wh-what?"

Cara's lips rise, settling into the confident smirk that all but bears her signature and, as Kahlan's blush deepens in time, she decides to let that unknown something fill to the bursting if that's the price she has to pay to remain at Kahlan's side until the Keeper comes to claim them both. "It's all new…?" she prompts, unaware of the way her smirk softens in the face of Kahlan's confusion.

"Oh? Oh!" Her eyes light up and her skin grows hotter still beneath Cara's hand. "What I was  _ going _ to say," she begins, lips lifting in a small, oddly shy, smile. "Is that it's new for me too."

Cara's brow creases because how can this be new for her? Kahlan may not have been born in the White City but she'd lived in Aydindril for years and- 

Kahlan's thumb brushes against Cara's cheekbone and her eyes widen in understanding. "Oh."

Kahlan's smile widens, softens, and she drags her thumb across the line of her cheek a final time before she lets her hand fall away. Cara, uncertain, moves to take her hand away too but Kahlan stops her without a word, pressing her lips to the inside of her wrist - undoubtedly feeling the way her heart picks up as she does - before easing Cara's hand from her still-warm cheek and entwining it with her own. "Come inside with me?" she asks.

And, oh, but Cara can deny her nothing, least of all this. She thinks, she  _ knows _ , if Kahlan asked, she would follow her anywhere. So she inclines her head, gently, uncertainly, squeezing Kahlan's hand as she does. "With pleasure, Confessor," she says lightly, enjoying the renewed flush of Kahlan's cheeks far more than she assumes is proper.

As they step inside, Kahlan squeezing her hand before releasing it in order to cross the room and summon their evening meal, Cara casts one last considering look at the night-darkened sky.  _ Keeper take the blasted winter _ , she thinks, easing the balcony doors closed with a quiet click. 

_ Just let me have this. _


End file.
